


In Sequins and in Lace

by VerdantMoth



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Dancer Arthur, Fae Magic, Fae Merlin, Lapdance, M/M, Painted Boys, Private Performance, by dancer I mean Stipper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-08-23 17:43:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16623527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: Arthur steps back, moves until his back hits the rough cloth of the old drapes covering the concrete walls. The man steps forward, under the stage lights, and Arthur’s stomach curls in equal parts lust and fear. Fae.He’s seen this man prefers when he watches Arthur perform. Blue eyes too intense and lips overly pouty. Dark hair a wild, living beast upon his head. He watches Arthur and never blinks and then he leaves without a backward glance. He never engages and though Arthur likes to look at the long neck disappearing into cobalt shirts, the man is never supposed to be more than a shower fantasy and a good tip.





	In Sequins and in Lace

 

The stage is sticky on one side and slick on the other, with patches where the wood is rough and splintered. The light above manages to be entirely unflatteringly yellow and extremely hot and harsh. Valiant never turns the air up enough in the winter, or down enough in the summer. But the money is good, and the clientele is mostly respectful and Valiant works around day schedules.

All in all, Arthur  _ likes  _ dancing for the Wailing Wench. It isn’t glamorous, it isn’t respectable, it barely covers the bills. But it leaves him free, lets his body bend and his mind stretch.

Tonight, Arthur’s shorts are nearly see through. The delicate gold lace is blinding in under the lights, sequence glinting sporadically. He’s not barefoot, something he’s thankful for, given the fresh splinter in his left foot from two nights ago.

Elyan has painted him. Arthur prefers Elyan doing it. He sticks to soft shades of gold, broad strokes across his lids and his lips. He doesn’t soften Arthur’s cheeks though. Even smooth shaven, Arthur cannot be mistaken for a lithe boy, or something other. Elyan sees no point in downplaying his masculinity.

The music Valiant chose for him tonight isn’t Arthur’s usual. It’s violin heavy, fast paced and ever changing. He prefers something more poppy, something with a steady beat. This particular song is really for a more classic dancer. A ballerina, perhaps.

But Valiant wants Arthur to  _ expand his resume.  _ Valiant sees Arthur going places. He hasn't quite figure out that this isn’t a necessity for Arthur, isn’t something he wants to do forever. This is just a release, a way for him to fight against the structure of his life. Thursday through Saturday, Arthur sheds his ties and his briefcase and his paperwork.

He dances, in whatever costume is presented to him, and he watches those watching him.

He wants to know what they think. What the couple in the back booth see in his face. What the lumberjack in the front is doing here, with his constant blush. He wants to know if the curly haired man leering at him is seeing  _ him  _ or some fantasy the wife to his left can’t know about.

He catches the eyes of a fluffy haired male who winks at him, raises his glass. Arthur slinks his way across the stage, gets as close as he dares, and rolls his hips. The man laughs and raises a hand to Arthur’s thigh, but Arthur slips back quick, too quick. He doesn’t let them touch. No amount of money in the front of his shorts is worth it. Floppy hair knows this, winks at Arthur and mouths “one day.”

Arthur flicks him off. His song ends, and he leaves the stage, picking up his robe as he goes. His favorite patron did not show tonight, and he tries to ignore the strange bubble of disappointment. There is always tomorrow. But he's never missed a show before.

“Private room, Pendragon.”

Arthur snorts. “Very funny, Elyan.”

Elyan shakes his head. “No joke. Valiant said send you back.”

Arthur stares at him wide eyed. “What? No I  _ never  _ do private audience.”

Elyan shrugs. “Valiant said the money was good. Too good to pass.”

Arthur shakes his head. “No. I don’t do private performances, Elyan. Valiant knows this. That was the deal when he hired me.”

Elyan throws his hands up in frustration. “Look pal, I don’t know. Valiant said you, special request. And the money is good. I gotta go on, so get in there.”

Arthur goes to say something else, but Elyan is gone, leaving him there holding his robe. He doesn’t have a lot of rules about his performances. He’ll wear anything, dance to anything, take anything to get in the right headspace. But he doesn’t let them touch and he never meets a client one on one. Hard and fast rules that Valiant had promised to keep to. No amount of money seems worth breaking them.

He doesn’t need this job the way some of the others do. It’s nice, and the cash is good and easy, but he doesn’t have a family to support and he has his nine-to-five. He can walk away. Quit on the spot and leave the poor soul in the red-draped room to wonder.

But he likes the freedom he has here. The anonymity that comes, despite being on display. He’s just a body to these men, a moving fantasy. A dream out of reach. But this is the one place Arthur can let go of everything he is and forget himself.

He drops the robe and enters the private room.

The lights in the private room are Arthur’s favorite. They're soft and low, meant to highlight the sweat on his skin, meant to make the walls disappear. He can’t see anything beyond the smooth wood and the red drapes. He can’t see who he is dancing for.

He’s never heard the song that slinks from the speakers, slow and heavy. He doesn’t- this isn’t what he dances to. He needs it faster, headier. But he’s seen the way some of the other’s do it, so he runs a hand down the planes of his chest, over his waxed belly. He miss his curls, but he aims to please. He loses himself for a moment, hands roaming and hips swaying, He tosses his head back, bends his knees.

Out there, on that stage, he can find the space between reality and dream, the haze that reminds him of white powder and green smoke. Indulgences he let go of before Uni. Dancing though, means he can drift in and out. The burn in his muscles, the ache in his chest.  He floats, and his mind is absolutely blank save for the music. Even when he’s studying his customers, wondering what they see, he is elsewhere.

He can’t do that in here. He can’t breath in here. Can’t seem to escape the stretch of his skin, or the smell of his own sweat. He can’t  _ see  _ who is watching him. He can’t let his thoughts wander. He can’t  _ drift  _ into the other space.

“Why do you dance?”

The question startles him, makes him miss his step, and he goes down on hard on his knees. “Why do you watch?”

He doesn’t like to sound as snappish as he does, but he isn’t used to conversation. He doesn’t like conversation.

He hears the man chuckle. Suddenly the lights are stupid and he hates the curtains. He wants to  _ see  _ who is watching him. He needs to see the look in their eye. To imagine the fantasy playing in their minds.  

“Why do you watch?” Arthur stops moving. He stands there, sweaty and half naked, and he is suddenly embarrassed in a way he has never been before. He feels exposed.

“Because you are beautiful.”

Arthur frowns. “Do not mock me.”

He can hear shuffling as the man moves in his seat, as he sheds his coat. “I don’t. You are beautiful.”

Arthur shuffles his feet, feels the pulse of the music at his back, but he does not resume his dance. “How did you convince Valiant to bring me back here.”

“Anyone can be bought.”

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest. “I can’t.”

There’s amusement in the man’s voice when he answers. “And yet, here you are.”

Arthur steps away, moves until his back hits the rough cloth of the old drapes covering the concrete walls. The man steps forward, under the stage lights, and Arthur’s stomach curls in equal parts lust and fear.  _ Fae  _ .

He’s seen this man; prefers when he watches Arthur perform. Blue eyes too intense and lips overly pouty. Dark hair a wild, living beast upon his head. He watches Arthur and never blinks and then he leaves without a backward glance. He never engages and though Arthur likes to look at the long neck disappearing into cobalt shirts, the man is never supposed to be more than a shower fantasy and a good tip.

“Why do you dance?”

“Because it lets me be free.”

The man reaches a hand towards Arthur. A sharp, blue veined, glass looking hand that brushes his knuckles and sends a shiver down his spine. 

 

“Free from what?” His voice wraps around Arthur, drips into his ears like warm rain, slides down his throat like burnt caramel.

He answers, though he doesn’t know why. “Free from reality, from responsibility.”

“What do you see, when you dance?” Arthur doesn’t know when, but the man has wrapped his arms around Arthur, his nuzzling into his neck, licking at it, drinking in his sweat.

“I,”  Arthur can’t breath. The air is too salty, too heavy. Too much like the bad trip he had a few years ago. “I don’t see anything.”

“Yes you do. Where do you go, Arthur, when you dance? When you steal the thoughts from the men who pay for your fun?”

His eyes drift, flutter. Everything swirls in technicolor around him. “I fly.”

Strong arms grab him behind the knees, he’s cradled against a firm chest. Too firm, too cold. “Where do you fly to? Arthur? What land do you go to, when you break away from this one?”

His head droops and his sight blurs, and he says “I fly to your realm,” before he fades to sleep.

 


End file.
